In the European spring of 2015 I was on tour in Paris with an Australian dance company. Three nights before our première at the Théâtre National de Chaillot, we were invited to a cocktail reception at the ninth-floor penthouse atop the Australian Embassy, residence of our ambassador to France. His name was Stephen Brady. He had a photograph of Tony Abbott on his wall, but he was gay, and early in his assignment that had been an issue for him—his partner Peter had had to stay in the car when they’d greeted then prime minister Abbott at the airport.

We arrived together, crossing the bridge on foot from our serviced apartments—dancers, actors and technicians. The lift opened onto a large salon enclosed in tinted glass. Embassy staff milled under a canopied ceiling, on carpet so thick as to silence footfalls. Waiters paced with canapés and a bar poured Australian wines. On the terrace a cool spring wind was blowing, and we sipped wine and smoked and chatted.